979. #BlogElul 6: Search

"... Rebbe Nachman teaches: 'At times, when people are joyful and dance, they will seize one who sits apart in his sorrow. They drag him into their dancing round and compel him to be happy with them. This is also what happens in the heart of a person who is joyful. Sadness and sorrow withdraw on the sidelines, but it is reckoned as a special virtue to round them up boldly and to bring sadness along into joy, so that all the power of sorrow be changed to joy.' (Likutei Mohoran II 23)

Rebbe Nachman knew that for most people, most of the time, joy is an effort and a choice. Sorrow is always available, and we can transform it or let it govern us. There is nobody who does not know sorrow, and yet still Rebbe Nachman said, 'it is a great mitzvah to be happy always.' ..."

—Rabbi Brent Chaim Spodek, 

from B'nai Jeshurun's "Gates of Reflection" daily posts for the month of Elul

There's a lot of joy in my life, although usually not the woo hoo, let's run around with a bunch of balloons! kind. It's more often the quieter type: moments of love and friendship, small hurdles overcome, the light through leaves of a tree in the park in the morning, colors and textures of paint, a purring cat, a song, a prayer. Like the miracle of the air that surrounds us, these instances of joy can be so closely woven into the background that that they seem to disappear. But they're just waiting for me search for and notice them, and then grab on and dance.

978. Attempting to #BlogElul. 5: Know.

Every year at this time I try to prepare for the month ahead. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. So jumping into the fray this time around, belatedly, with a few sentences:

What I know:

That art has taken the place of writing for me this year, which is just fine.

That I still, maybe, feel the need to write, so here I am again.

That I work too hard, and so it's really OK when I procrastinate. A little.

That I'm learning how to stand up for myself.

That I'm learning about the kinds of people with whom I need to surround myself.

That I'm blessed for having so many of those people in my life right now.

That I'm really, really lucky.

That living, especially in New York City, is a long, roiling, wavy line.

That if you examine that line closely, it still does contain small, smooth moments of tranquility.

That I'm learning to discover more of those moments.

That I'm learning.

977. Glow

A lovely essay by the Coffee Shop Rabbi--please read the whole thing:

"Chanting My Way into Torah"

Excerpt:

Then I begin to notice how the melody comments upon the text: emphasize this word, that phrase.  Make a sort of soprano hiccup (geresh!) on one little preposition.  Gradually the text warms up, or I warm up to it. The little incense table begins to take shape, and glow.

976. Presence

Thanks to a link in this op-ed by David Brooks, "The Art of Presence," I found this interesting piece about how to respond and react when someone you know experiences a trauma:

A New Normal: Ten Things I've Learned About Trauma

The author, Catherine Woodiwiss, is recovering from a serious accident. She writes, among other wise words:

2.  Presence is always better than distance.

There is a curious illusion that in times of crisis people “need space.” I don’t know where this assumption originated, but in my experience it is almost always false. Trauma is a disfiguring, lonely time even when surrounded in love; to suffer through trauma alone is unbearable. Do not assume others are reaching out, showing up, or covering all the bases.
It is a much lighter burden to say, “Thanks for your love, but please go away,” than to say, “I was hurting and no one cared for me.” If someone says they need space, respect that. Otherwise, err on the side of presence.

I've learned this past year that some people seem to prefer the "unbearable," suffering alone, to its alternative: allowing others in at a time when you're most vulnerable. Allowing them to see you at your worse and weakest, and trusting that they'll love you no matter what. But if you don't love yourself, then it's very hard to accept that others do. Pushing them away becomes a survival tactic to help maintain the status quo—but  ignores the fact that in times of trauma, the old status quo generally flies out the window.

I don't know what Judaism says about this, but I keep coming back to Pirkei Avot: "Find yourself a teacher." In my experience, when I've been at my weakest it's helped immeasurably to imagine everyone around me, from the guy who sells me coffee in the morning, to my clients, to my friends and rabbis, as a teacher, and remember that at my emptiest I can't possibly have any idea of what they might offer to fill that space. So I try to let them in.

975. Expansion

"Spread over us your shelter of peace," we ask God every Friday night in the Hashkivenu prayer. We can interpret this to mean that peace requires expansion, observed the rabbi at services this week, since God needs to create something wide for the shelter to be able to cover us.

But what if only God expands in this scenario? What if we remain closed--will peace reach those places within us that stay hidden? The question made me think of the times I've walked down the street with a friend and it started to rain. If my friend has an umbrella and I don't, then I'll try to squeeze under hers. Invariably I'll wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to become as small as possible, but that usually backfires; it creates an awkward, uneven gait, and I end up bumping into shoulders and elbows and getting soaked. The only way I can stay dry is to relax and synchronize my steps with the shelter-bearer.

I think that's the big problem with achieving peace--we're afraid that expansion will reveal those parts of us we don't want to see. It's one thing to pray that God, or the other country or person, will become wide and open to reveal new shelters and pathways. It's not so easy to reciprocate, however.

974. Happy 2014, and here I am again

It sure has been a long time, well over a year. I'm still here, and doing fine. I've been very busy with a new business on top of my old business; both are fun and complicated, and take up too much time. Not a whole lot of creative juice has been left over for writing, though, which has been OK; the new stuff has mostly filled that need, and more.

But I'm still trying to make sense of one of those bullet points from way back at the end of '12:

• ended a long friendship that had become toxic; as sad as a death, and I will be mourning this loss for a long time

Mostly, in my experience, time really does heal all wounds, but not always. Sometimes time creates scars weaker and far uglier than the original thin skin. It's taken me over a year to understand that there will be no closure to this particular pain and I need to learn to live with it, move past it, and change its story into one of comfort and compassion. I need to stop imagining that the clock will magically turn back and all will be well. I've tried to heal in many different ways; maybe reviving this blog and watching myself think in public, so to speak, will help.

Aside from all that: yes, I continue to chant and sing! And I'm still thinking about how the meaning of all those words and notes (and, in my art, their shapes and colors) fits into the larger story of Torah and life. Maybe I'll write about that, or maybe not. Either way, I hope to again be able to make time and space to write something, anything, every once in awhile.

973. #BlogElul 11: Change

I'm on "stay-cation" this week, and so am trying to change my habits just a little to make the usual seem new and different. This morning I got up at 5AM and walked exactly 3.4 mles to a breakfast meeting (OK, I'm not entirely faux-away, but enough to tell the difference). It felt great, a reminder that leaving my comfort zone can be (almost) as rewarding as staying in bed an extra hour.

As I stumbled out of the apartment in near darkness, I passed and read the calligraphy print by the door just as I do every day:

"Nothing endures but change." --Epictetus

972. #BlogElul 10: Memory

I subscribe to a daily Google alert for the word "Judaism," which delivers some interesting (in the broadest meaning of the word) articles to my emailbox. This morning's batch included a critique of a recent Washington Post interview with Zeke Emmanuel, Obama bioethics advisor, brother of Rahm and Ari, and self-described atheist and follower of kashrut. The Post story focuses on the difference, in Judaism, between belief and practice. I won't link to or quote from the other article, which fits squarely into the Fox News mode and already has enough readers, I'm sure. I will say that it calls Dr. Emmanuel a hypocrite for keeping kosher and yet not believing in God, because the Old Testament says to be kosher and Jews follow the Old Testament. There you have it, end of story. (He then applies the same logic to the issues of abortion and gay marriage, and you can guess his conclusions.)

I mention all this in the context of today's Elul prompt, "Memory," because it reminded me of being 8 years old and asking my Hebrew School teacher what I was supposed to feed my goldfish during Passover. "Matzah meal," replied the rabbi, stroking his long, grey beard (he looked very much like Santa Claus). That night I informed my mother that we had to get some matzah meal for Goldie. I remember her looking very concerned as she answered, and kneeling down so we could speak eye-to-eye. "Oh, I'm so sorry, we can't do that," she said. "Goldie has to eat fish food or she'll die."

I burst into tears. Why did my rabbi want to kill my goldfish? I didn't want to be a bad Jew, and he had taught us that everyone, including pets, was supposed to eat kosher for Passover food during Passover or we'd be bad Jews. But wasn't killing even worse than that? My mother said something or other to calm me down, but I'd already concluded that the rabbi wasn't as smart as he seemed to be, since this made no sense. I also learned, at that moment, to follow no words blindly, not even God's, because "right" and "wrong" must be judged in context.

Which brings me to a question I've been asking myself during this month of Elul: have I done a good enough job this year of examining and, as necessary, challenging the rules?

I thank you, Rabbi Santa Claus, wherever you are, for inadvertently teaching me a lesson much bigger than the laws of kashrut.

971. Hello again (and #BlogElul)

Hello again, world. It's Elul, so I thought I'd honor the month of preparation for something new by revisiting this blog and exploring the newness (including spiffier colors) within something old and good.

Let's see, since February, 2011, the date of my last post, I:

• chanted Torah A LOT, and loved every minute (even the nervous ones, much fewer these days)
• led High Holy Day services last September without being surprised by overly dramatic moments, an experience I look forward to repeating in a few weeks
• created art, in bits and pieces and way behind schedule, that I hope will be on a website very soon
• went to the gym more often than before
• wrote very little (and acknowledged that I can't do everything)
• said hello to my stem cell recipient, who's feeling great
• said goodbye to my dear cat, a beloved companion for 13 years
• ended a long friendship that had become toxic; as sad as a death, and I will be mourning this loss for a long time
• continued to be blessed with good health, an abundance of amazing, non-toxic, loving friends, unparalleled opportunities, and lots of luck.

In short, it was a year and half of life; a bit of a roller coaster, but not too much to complain about and an awful lot to celebrate.

I'm going to try to belatedly jump into #BlogElul, a terrific idea, and post throughout the month on the topic of the day. I'll also post links to the brand new @altoartist Twitter account. Today's topic, for the 9th of Elul, is "Blessings," so it seemed like an auspicious moment to count mine. A few weeks ago I also signed up for Grateful 160, which prompts you every day via email to list one thing for which you're grateful. Some mornings it's harder than others to find that blessing, but I always do—and then realize it was staring me right in the face.

970. 'Neath the elms

I'm still here! Spending much of my free time these days immersed in another project I hope will one day become part of my design business. It's starting slowly—but it's starting, the most important part. Alas, I have only so much extra creative energy to go around once the work day is over. I'm not taking my usual, wonderful writing class this winter, and haven't been blogging very much, either, both to make more time and space in my brain for the other venture. But "on chanting" and I haven't disappeared, and I hope to be back in full(er) force one day soon.

Meanwhile, a great deal of chanting going on. My casual remark to the cantor resulted in six weeks of aliyot of various lengths over the last eight, some sort of personal record. My nerves, still present, seem to have reached a peaceful if tentative detente with the rest of myself. One of my rabbis is teaching a wonderful class on prayer as seen through the writings of Heschel and Hassidic masters, and last week we studied these words of the Maggid of Mezeritch:

"... As the breath leaves you, it ascends to God and then it returns to you from above.
Thus that part of God which is within you is reunited with its source."

So, added the rabbi, sometimes it's good to just stop and breathe, and remind ourselves that we're constantly being recharged with (in the author's words) "that breath of heaven that is always flowing into you from above." We exhale and send the air in our lungs to God, who gives it right back. I remembered this as I chanted on Shabbat, when I placed my yad on the first word and took a deep breath. Please add a little more confidence to the mix when You return it, I thought.

I was too focused on trying to pronounce strange words for the names of jewels I could barely even recognize in English to notice if my prayer had been answered (but perhaps my concentration proved that it was). The section concluded with a description of the "Urim v'tummim," mysterious words on the high priest's breastplate meaning, maybe, "Light and perfection," although there are many other possible translations and mystical explanations. Coincidentally—or not—I had to rush out of services get to my college choir's 150th anniversary celebration, held on an enormous stage in front of a massive pipe organ crowned, at the very top, with the Yale seal emblazoned with those very words. I've written here before about the deep influence on my life of the Yale Glee Club, and especially its conductor. One of my first blog posts, almost exactly six years ago, was about my first time back on the campus in a decade. Back then, as yesterday, the place was alive with ghosts of my youth, of my mother, and of loss, joy, love.

(To be continued.)

969. Pluck

Serves me right (in an entirely good way) to have asked about more opportunities to chant. Yesterday I read haftarah, and have lots o'aliyot coming up next week and the week after. Yikes (in a good way). I've also discovered I have no idea how long it takes me to learn a section. I'm faster than I think, mostly. But I always dwell on the exceptions, and so say no when it comes to adding an aliyah or two. I need to be a little more brave.

As I walked over to the bima, the rabbi leaned over and said, sotto voce, "Go for it!" Exactly what I needed to hear. (I wonder if he noticed my big, nervous intake of breath a minute earlier before chanting the blessing.) So I threw caution to the winds, and tried to sing with everything I had. Not that I hold back, especially during the High Holy Days, but am at times more decorous than others. The rabbi's words in mind, I let more of myself through than nerves had allowed me in awhile. It was fun. Much easier to do this for haftarah, when I can clutch my own piece of paper, complete with notes and vowels, rather than when maneuvering the sea of letters that float above the dizzying cliff of memory required to read Torah--but perhaps some of my pluck will last until next Shabbat.

(I learned to chant exactly nine years ago! Why am I still nervous? But I am. And I think it's a good thing; those nerves make me look beyond the obvious, with respect to myself as well to the act of singing and reading. The answers, like Torah, change over time and are sometimes inscrutable.)

968. Finally: chanting!

Yes, believe it or not—and right before Shabbat, to boot—a post about chanting. (Not that I don't have more to say about the stem cell donation. I finally got my act together last week and answered my recipient's note, accompanied by extensive musing about how she is now a part of me as much as I am of her. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, which happens more often than I'd like, I just imagine her life, struggles, strength. They trump mine many times over; acknowledging that, I shrug and pick myself off the floor. I'm beginning to think the donation worked both ways, a little bit of her spirit flowing into me in exchange for the cells.)

But back to chanting. I did so last week, just one short aliyah, for the first time in two and a half months—my longest leining-less gap in years. No particular reason for the silence, although I did get paranoid for awhile there (and successfully talked myself out of it). The current crop of b'nai mitzvah are more amazing than ever before, and generally cover the entire reading each Shabbat between the two of them. In some instances one child reads the whole thing his/herself, as will my brilliant student in September. The relatively few chances for adults to read went to people who asked, or (it seemed to me) hadn't read much in the recent past, so it was their turn.

My short section was to fill in for someone at the last minute, and I took the occasion to ask the cantor, hmm, it's been awhile, any more opportunities coming up? So I'm reading again next week, which feels very good. I mean that literally, physically: singing, breathing for singing, is more refreshing first thing in the morning than jumping into the ocean on a hot day. (Or inhaling a mug of soup on one of these recent freezing days.) Learning an aliyah becomes an aliyah in the truest sense—my soul feels lifted up with every word. I ran into one of my b'not Torah students at services last week, who acknowledged that it was really depressing to have stopped singing after that intense event. And I realized these past 2 1/2 months took the same toll on my spirits, as well. The break was good, in many regards; I re-channeled that creative energy to a bunch of new and previously neglected projects. But I'm very happy to redirect it back home, especially since those other ventures are starting to take flight.

967. Update!

Yes, another post not about chanting, and with an exclamation point in the title to boot—update received from my stem cell recipient, and so far all is well! Engraftment was successful, meaning that her body didn't reject my cells and they're starting the process of creating a new immune system. She's home from the hospital, although not yet out of the woods (rejection, infection, and other nasty things could happen at a later date)—but this was the first big hurdle. I'm glad to able to say "congratulations" in my answer to her note.

I am now very proud of my stem cells, if I say so myself, and of God (and many teams of doctors) for knowing what to do with them. This is great news to have at the start of the secular year, just as donating those cells was a fitting way to begin the Jewish new year. Good timing on the part of the universe, which sometimes does get it right.

966. What is the Qur'an?

Here's an excellent video, linked from Islamicate:

"What is the the Qur'an? An Agnostic Jew Speaks. Lesley Hazelton at TEDx."



(TEDxs are "independently organized TED events.") The title says it all, and the speaker is brilliant, straightforward, and funny. And I wish she could have been at my side at a recent gathering when a member of my extended family severely tested my commitment to shalom bayit. I bit my tongue and knew I'd lost the argument before even uttering a word, because he was the kind of guy interested in no opinion but his own (wrong, scary, bigoted one). Lesley Hazelton could have made him a believer, however.

965. Rain

Not much blogging here lately, I know. But I've been writing, mainly for the wonderful class I'm taking once again where we study a little Torah and then listen to one another's words—I am awed and inspired by both. I wish there were more hours in the day to do that, and work, and sing, and draw (an old hobby newly resurrected—or will be, once I finish clearing some space out in a corner of my bedroom). Oh, and socialize and pray and look at art and relax. I need a 48-hour day.

Meanwhile, in the middle of today's 24-hour one I led a shiva minyan. I arrived to see the rabbi deep in conversation—must be a scheduling mistake, I thought, since they certainly didn't need me if he was present. "No problem," I said to the son of the deceased. "I'm glad to stay." "The more the merrier," he answered, not ironically. A torrent of laughter came from the dining room; you could almost see the love pouring from all these good spirits. But I didn't know a soul, and suddenly felt uncomfortable. I'm not great at being a stranger in the middle of a crowd, even a really nice one. Just as I began to strategize which back wall to melt into, the wife of the deceased came over.

"You can lead now," she said with a smile. And there was the rabbi, putting on his coat and thanking me; he just came by for a visit. (Maybe he was on his way to another minyan. This winter, once again, brought a depressing increase in deaths within the community.) I was relieved to have something to do, and to do this thing in particular. (And also that the rabbi would not actually listen to me lead. Silly! They hear me sing all the time. But not in someone's living room while pretending to be in charge, even though I sort of am. It's less stressful to wear that mantle in a room full of people I don't really know.)

Today was the last day of shiva and everyone prayed wearily, too familiar with the drill. I learned that the deceased was alive and eating dinner at this time just a little more than a week ago, and then died very suddenly. The family cried and smiled and laughed, lovely, gracious people who made sure to thank crowds of friends for their support, and didn't seem numb, but I knew they were. I walked out into the rain very glad to be alive, chilly, and wet in the middle of Broadway.